Taylor Swift and sexy. Words you wouldn’t generally find in the same sentence. Much like Maxim and feminism. But, if the men’s magazine notorious for its images of the female form in some variation of the “bare butt thrust out, wet T-shirt scarcely covering unnaturally large nipples” pose is to be believed, it’s precisely this newly discovered women’s lib stance that led to them selecting Swift as their No 1 gal in their annual Hot 100 list.
Not because she’s actually “hot”, mind you, a la previous winners along the lines of Candice Swanepoel, Bar Refaeli, Eva Longoria or Jessica Alba. Rather, her win is down to the fact “she is so deeply unconcerned with whether you consider her attractive, which of course only makes her more so”.
(Excuse me a moment while I attempt to quell my gag reflex...)
Maxim’s schmaltzy rationale for their choice continues with the equally smug: “Taylor is the world’s most relevant and intriguing woman... The quintessential American success story.”
(Nope, there’s no controlling the wretch factor now...)
The bra-burning, equality among the sexes, “up with the sisterhood” side to me says we should be heaping praise on Maxim’s new editor, Kate Lanphear, – reportedly the reason for the lad mag’s sudden departure from “sex sells”, in favour of focusing on proverbial brains over beauty.
But there’s just something too contrived, too carefully considered, too perfectly orchestrated about the whole manoeuvre to make me blindly buy what they’re selling.
For one thing, there’s a not-so-subtle undertone at play, which seems to suggest Swift wouldn’t have reached quite the same heights of musical success if she had been more preoccupied with the colour of her lipstick. A notion which, in and of itself, is only slightly insulting to women who – the audacity! – manage to be both attractive and accomplished (without the one being dependent on the other).
The full force of this project in patronisation, however, lies in the absurdity of the actual statement. Of course she cares about her looks. Even drop-dead gorgeous model sorts, akin to her latest BFF, Cara Delevingne, are snapped in sweat pants and shaggy bed hair on occasion. But not TayTay. From the 1920’s brogues and crochet dresses, to the polka dot skirts and flawlessly coiffured locks, there is nothing accidental about her “perfectly put together good girl from a bygone era” image.
Then there’s the whole allusion to “relevance” and “intrigue” that gets under the skin and itches like a bad case of poison ivy. The latter suggests a sense of mystery, of an enigma, of the unknown – when in point of fact we’re talking about a girl-adult who has, er, swiftly, dated her way through the whole black book of showbiz bachelors and proceeded to use every. one. of her short lived (and invariably ill-fated) romances as creative fodder.
And that’s not even to speak of her fluid and equally fleeting friendships, most of which she also appears to forge purely for the purpose of serving as material for her music when they go belly-up.
As for the relevance factor, well, isn’t that true of anyone who finds themselves at the summit of fame and fortune? They wouldn’t be famous if they weren’t relevant to the times and what, exactly, is it that Taylor encapsulates or purports to promote that truly distinguishes her from her peers like Katy Perry, who are singing the same “female power!” tune?
Nay, I for one am not convinced. And it’s not a feeling I can simply shake off…